


The Things We Swore We'd Never Do

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Fluff, M/M, Slightly dubious consent, first-time, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: Dean wakes up, jerks off in the shower while thinking about Sam, and then goes to fix breakfast for the two of them. A few days later, things start to get weird.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my two wonderful beta readers, [non_tiembo_mala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/) and [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancing_adrift)!

Dean wakes up slowly, his morning wood pressing almost painfully into the mattress as his fuzzy mind clings to the remnants of whatever dream he had. He can't really remember, but he figures it must have been a good one.

He rolls out of bed, almost stumbles over his boots and clothes scattered on the ground, and absently presses his palm against his erection, rubbing himself through the fabric of his boxer-briefs.

Down the hall, in the huge-ass Men of Letters bathroom, he strips and chooses the first of the three shower stalls. Sam always uses that one, too, and there's a small assortment of both of their shampoos and body washes sitting in the corner—they used to have one of each, but now that they have a home base, the collection is slowly but steadily growing. It's one of those weird little changes and it shouldn't make a difference, but Dean likes it.

Under the spray, he picks up the first bottle that he can get his hand on, checks to see if it's shampoo or body wash, and then flips the cap open. It's Sam's, the scent light and fresh, more subtle than what Dean would have picked out. Dean likes it. He soaps himself up lazily, getting his skin slippery, and then slides his hand down to his dick. The first touch makes him moan softly, stomach tightening, and Dean starts stroking himself lazily. He's in no rush this morning.

Instead, he drags it out, picks a slow rhythm and enjoys the pleasure rolling down his spine. He thinks about Sam—his mile long legs, his tight, perky ass, the broad shoulders. Thinks about how damn tall Sam is, how he has to tilt his head up to look at him sometimes, how Sam can easily hold him down because the guy is all strength and flexibility. It's a thought of Sam's mouth, his pink lips and dimples, that finally sends Dean over the edge. He arches into his hand, shoots across the tiles, and lets out a satisfied moan.

"Fuck," he mutters contentedly, smiling. For a while, he just enjoys the post-orgasmic haze, lets the water wash away the mess he made, and only then does he look through the bottles again for his shampoo and sets about washing his hair.

+

Sam is already up, sitting at the table in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hands and a book open in front of him. There are no signs that he's eaten yet; he usually waits for Dean to get up and fix them something these days. Dean doesn't mind—he likes taking care of Sam and, if he's honest with himself, he likes cooking and puttering around their place, keeping things in order. _Nice_. Fucking domesticated, is what Dean is these days.

He strolls up to Sam and leans down, smiling when Sam tips his head back and accepts the kiss Dean places on his lips. "Morning, Sammy," Dean says, and lets his hand brush down Sam's back for a split second.

"Morning," Sam replies, looking happy and rested. Dean pulls away with a content smile.

"Eggs and toast okay?" he asks.

"Sure," Sam says. "We got some fruit?"

"I can cut you up an apple," Dean offers and starts pulling out a pan and mixing bowl from one of the cabinets. Sam makes a noise of approval and makes no move to help, hasn't since Dean has declared him hopeless in the kitchen and threatened to murder him if he tried to cook and messed up his well-ordered space ever again.

Dean hums to himself while he fixes their food - beats the eggs, adds some salt and herbs. Once the mixture is in the pan he pops two slices of toast into the toaster and gets an apple for Sam.

"Such a good wife," Sam teases when Dean finally puts two plates of food down on the table, and Dean only grins.

"What’cha reading?" he asks as he settles down, nudges his foot against Sam's under the table.

"Just some lore. The book looked kinda cool, so," Sam says and shrugs. Dean lifts his foot, runs it up Sam's leg and grins at him across the table.

"I'm gonna see if I can find us a job later," Sam adds. Dean pouts exaggeratedly.

"Sick of being here with me? Need to get out?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're the one who insisted we go out last night because you were feeling antsy."

"Not antsy," Dean argues. "Wanting to go out every once in a while is normal human behavior, Sammy."

"And getting drunk, flirting with every girl at the bar and starting a fight?" Sam asks. Dean grins.

"Sounds like a good night," he says.

+

A day later, they're on the road.

Dean is whistling, singing along to the music he's blasting. He's got Sam, his car, and a job on the horizon.

The best thing is that the job is a simple salt and burn, something to get done and feel good about, with neither him nor Sam dying or the world ending.

At noon, Dean stops to fill up on gas and Sam goes to pay and grab them some snacks.

"What did you get me?" he asks, grinning, when Sam gets back in the car and Dean guns the engine.

"Doritos, sandwiches, gummy worms," Sam says, poking through the bag. "Soda for you, water for me."

Dean reaches over, rests his hand on Sam's thigh for a moment and gives it a squeeze, before he turns his hand upside down, holds his open palm out to Sam. "Give me a sandwich," he says.

Sam shifts, his legs falling open and Dean's eyes stray to the easy sprawl of his thighs for a moment before he focuses on the road again.

Life is good.

+

The case Sam found for them is an angry spirit in Page, Arizona. They don't drive straight through the way they would have done a few years ago. They find a small motel along the highway the first night, after stopping at a gas station to get dinner—more junk food that Dean used to love—but now that he gets to eat real food regularly, man, he misses his home-cooked meals.

At the motel, Sam gets their bags from the trunk while Dean gets them a room. Two queens, as always.

They eat dinner at the small table in the room, watch some TV and then go to bed early. Dean slips into Sam's bed after brushing his teeth, curls up around Sam and wraps an arm around his waist.

"Think we're gonna need more than a couple of days for the job?" he asks, kissing Sam's clothed shoulder. He slides his hand under Sam's shirt, trailing his fingers over the soft skin of Sam's belly. The muscles flex under Dean's touch, hard steel under warm skin, and he brushes his fingers over the soft line of hair that leads down, tickling him.

"Doubt it," Sam replies. He yawns and shifts back against Dean, the curve of his ass pressing against Dean's crotch. "There are some people we should talk to, but I'm pretty sure it's the deceased wife of the first victim."

"Why?" Dean asks. He nuzzles the back of Sam's neck and slides his hand lower, under the waistband of Sam's boxer-briefs. He scratches his fingers through the wiry curls there, and Sam moans softly.

"First victim was the town's doctor. The article mentioned that his wife passed away unexpectedly a few months prior. I looked it up and she died in a home accident, couldn't find anything specific. Anyway," Sam explains as Dean wraps his hand around Sam's dick and gives it a few lazy strokes, drawing a breathy gasp from Sam. Dean feels Sam harden in his hand, his hips twitching, but Sam keeps talking, "So, doc is gruesomely murdered in— _oh fuck_ —his own home a few months later."

Dean stops moving his hand, kisses Sam's neck softly. "Keep talking," he murmurs.

Sam lets out a breath, shifts his hips, and then continues. "Okay. So, then, a few weeks later, his _new_ girlfriend—who was already living with him by then, so I doubt she was all that new—dies, and then his receptionist, too. All of them were strangled to death, all of them in their homes with no signs of entry."

"Ergo, you think the dead wife is getting revenge on her cheating husband and his trollops," Dean concludes. He flicks his thumb over the tip of Sam's dick, gathers the precome there and smears it around teasingly. Sam rocks into his hand.

"Trollops?" he repeats, a little breathless. "Who even still uses that word?"

Dean hums, but doesn't reply. He starts moving his hand again, jerks Sam a little harder, faster, and ruts his own now hard dick against Sam's ass at the same time. He likes the way Sam feels in his hand, huge and hot. Precome makes his strokes a little smoother. Sam gets wetter than he does, and Dean likes that, too.

"So, we'll talk to the local police, see if there are any witnesses. But most likely we just gotta dig up the wife's grave, torch the bones and that's it," Dean says, picking up their conversation again.

"Yeah," Sam agrees around a groan. Then he lets out a series of quieter, breathless moans and tenses, coming in Dean's hand. Dean smiles into his neck. Sam is pliant in his arms now, chest heaving, and Dean grinds against him, chasing his own orgasm.

Sam is warm and he smells nice, and Dean closes his eyes and shudders when he comes with his dick pressed against Sam's ass.

+

The hunt is as easy as Sam said it would be.

The good thing about smaller towns is that people like to gossip. It doesn't take long for them to find out that Dr. Wyatt Wilson regularly stepped out on his wife. When Linda Wilson died—breaking her neck falling down the stairs one evening when her husband, according to his receptionist who he happened to be sleeping with too, was still at work—she left him a sizable amount of money, which she inherited from her parents less than a year ago. Dr. Wilson died, then his girlfriend who he'd been seeing for a couple of years already died, too, and then his receptionist was next.

Linda's sister, Norah Sanders, wrings her hands together nervously when they interview her, clearly on edge.

"Was there anything weird about your sister's death, Mrs. Sanders?" Sam asks, the side of his body pressed against Dean's where they're sitting together on the couch in her living-room. "Or since?"

"Since?" she asks. Her eye twitches. "No. I, well..."

"What is it?" Sam prods.

She looks down and Dean notes that her hands are trembling a little. "I thought I saw her a couple of times since she passed away. Crazy, huh?"

Dean clears his throat. "Mrs Sanders," he asks, keeping his voice gentle, cautious. "Were you and your sister's husband, let's say, _close_?"

She looks at them in disbelief. And then she starts crying.

+

Dean slips his hand into Sam's when they leave Norah Sanders' house.

"I feel almost bad for Linda," Sam says. "Her own sister was sleeping with her husband, too."

Dean nods and squeezes Sam's hand.

+

They dig out the grave that night and burn the bones. And then they get the hell out of the town. They smell like fire, sharp and smokey, and the scent of burning flesh lingers in Dean's nose. His hands are dark with soil, the fresh earth caked under his nails, and Sam has a smear of dirt on his cheek. Glancing at him in the dim light of the car, Dean reaches over and wipes at the smudge.

"We'll shower later," Sam murmurs, but he leans into the touch and kisses the side of Dean's palm.

+

They stop for the night in another motel on their way back to Lebanon.

They take a long shower together, scrubbing their skin clean. Afterward, Dean drags Sam to a bar to have a few drinks and unwind, and Sam only protests a little.

There's a dartboard in the corner of the bar and they play for a while, sipping on their not quite cold enough beers. Sam wins, but it's close, and Dean immediately asks for a rematch.

"You were just lucky this time," he says and slips a hand into the back pocket of Sam's jeans. He squeezes Sam's ass, feels the muscles jump under his palm.

"Yeah? Wanna bet I win again?" Sam asks. He turns to Dean and grins.

"I'll wipe the floor with you, dude," Dean says and tips his head up, catching Sam's mouth in a kiss.

"Loser has to clean the bathroom for a month," Sam mumbles against his lips, and Dean can feel his grin. He hums in agreement, kisses Sam more deeply before he lets him go.

"Deal, Sammy," he says and rubs his thumb over Sam's bottom lip. "You can go first. Then I'll show you how it's done, kid."

Sam snorts and goes to grab the darts from the board.

+

Sam wins again. He crows, acting like a smug bitch, so Dean kisses him until Sam shuts up, leaves him breathless and a little dazed.

"Gonna get us shots, Sammy boy," he says, slapping Sam's butt teasingly before he saunters off.

At the bar, he slides up next to a tall, blonde girl and grins at the bartender. "Two tequila shots and another round of beer," he says and then turns his head a little to check the girl next to him out. She's pretty, just his type, and he thinks about asking her if he can buy her a drink when she smiles at him and says, "You're cute, you and your boyfriend."

Dean frowns. "Who?" he asks.

"Your boyfriend," she repeats and inclines her head at someone behind Dean. Dean turns and finds himself looking at Sam still exactly where he left him. When Sam sees them both watching him, he gives them an awkward wave and smile.

"Oh, no, that's my brother," Dean says.

The girl makes a choked off sound. "Excuse me?"

"Sammy. He's just my little brother."

"Are you kidding me?" She sounds serious, confused.

"Uh, no? Why would I?" Dean says. He and Sam get that a lot, sure—though Dean still doesn't know why, but he's gotten used to it. And he knows some people don't _really_ believe them when they say they're brothers, but nobody is ever that outright open about it, that disbelieving.

"Because you were just making out with him," the girl says, her tone somewhere between puzzled and disgusted now. A thought niggles at Dean's brain, a passing feeling of confusion, of _wrong_. It last just for a second but then it's gone. Dean shrugs.

Just then the bartender places his order down in front of him and Dean gives the guy a friendly nod and slides over some money. "Thanks, man. Keep the change."

He picks up their drinks, then gives the girl next to him another smile. "Sorry, gotta get these back to Sam. Have a nice night."

"Freak," the girl mutters and Dean feels a little puzzled. He goes back to Sam and hands him his drinks. They both knock their shots back and then Dean steps in close, winding his arm around Sam's waist.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks. "The girl you were talking to us giving us weird looks, man."

"Yeah, I don't know," Dean says and nuzzles Sam's throat. "She got all weird when I told her we're brothers."

"Why?"

"No idea," Dean says.

"Well, if we're just gonna get stared at weirdly all night, I'd rather go back to the motel and relax," Sam says with a huff, throwing glances over Dean's shoulder.

Dean shrugs. "Let's finish the beer and head out," he agrees easily, not really minding. He wasn't really looking for anything anyway and he's okay with calling it an early night. He got to have a few drinks and kick back for a while, and that's all he came for.

+

Back in the motel room, curled up in bed together, Dean tugs Sam's underwear down midway to his thighs and then gets his own dick out while Sam cranes his head back to kiss him.

"Press your legs together," he murmurs as he quickly slicks himself up with spit. Sam hums, shifts against him, and Dean lays one hand on Sam's hip as he positions himself behind Sam and slides his cock between his thighs. Sam's skin there is silky soft, pressing hotly around Dean's dick in the most amazing way possible. He likes the feel of the swell of Sam's ass against him as he thrusts lazily, likes the way he pushes against Sam's heavy balls. Sam jerks himself off at the same time, small, breathless noises falling from his lips.

+

They stop to get groceries just outside Lebanon. Dean puts enough food in their cart that he can make dinner to last a week, even gets fixings for salads for Sam. He's rewarded with a soft grin and a kiss on the cheek.

After getting their groceries stored away in the trunk of the car, Sam backs him up against the side of the Impala, ignoring Dean's warning to be careful because they could scratch the paint. He kisses Dean, big hands cupping his cheeks and their bodies pressed together from head to toe. Dean forgets all about the paint job and parts his lips for Sam's tongue, arching up into the kiss eagerly.

They break apart when someone yells "fags." Dean glances around and finds a middle-aged heavy-set guy staring at them.

"Guys like you make me sick," the guy spits out.

"What the hell is your problem?" Dean asks, sliding his hands down Sam's sides. He rests on them his hips, squeezing.

"Fags like you, making out in public. At least keep your perversions behind locked doors," the guy replies.

"Dude, we're just getting groceries," Dean says, frowning.

"Let it go, Dean," Sam says. "The guy is clearly insane. Let's just go home."

"Fine," Dean agrees and rolls his eyes. "What a fucking weirdo."

Sam chuckles. "Yeah," he agrees and Dean sees him throwing another look at the guy. He's still glaring at them, but he hasn't made to move to come closer. Probably because both he and Sam are twice his size and could kick his ass with their eyes blindfolded.

"Man, people are crazy," Dean mutters to himself, shaking his head as he gets in the car.

+

"Think we can stay here for a week or so? Not look for a new hunt for a few days?" Dean asks that night. They're in Sam's bed, catching up on Game of Thrones. Sam claims he accidentally read spoilers on the internet though, so he's not really paying much attention to the episode currently playing on their TV. Instead, he's lying between Dean's spread legs, hot mouth wrapped around Dean's cock, bobbing up and down.

Sam hums in reply to Dean's question and palms Dean's balls, rolling them around and giving them gentle tugs. It's not perfect—the blow job is kinda sloppy, spit everywhere and Sam keeps trying to take him in further than he can handle, has already come up sputtering and coughing a couple of times. It's still pretty damn amazing, though, because Sam is one of those people that uses his mouth and his hands, strokes and fondles Dean as he sucks him off enthusiastically.

Dean groans and thrusts his hips up, into the warm wet heat of Sam's mouth. "Fuck that feels good," he pants.

Sam takes him in deeper, lets him slide in as far as he can and gives Dean's balls another tug. Dean moans, eyes fluttering shut. Fuck Game of Thrones, he thinks and fists his hands in Sam's hair.

He comes with a hoarse cry a few minutes later, cock buried in Sam's mouth and one of Sam's fingers brushing over his hole. Sam pulls back, flushed and eyes wet, and sits on his haunches. The bulk of his body blocks the TV completely now, but Dean doesn't care. He watches Sam take himself in hand and jerk off, pretty pink mouth parted in a small 'o'. It only takes a few strokes, and then his come splatters onto Dean's stomach. It's almost enough to get Dean hard again.

+

Dean kisses Sam, the water of the shower making the kiss slick and he tastes a hint of Sam's shampoo on his lips. He can't stop touching. His fingers slide over Sam's arms, his back, down to his ass.

When they part, Sam drops his forehead against Dean's, his breathing ragged. Steam is billowing up around them.

"Thought you said you were going to go make breakfast," Sam says and pinches Dean's side playfully.

"Hmmm, yeah," Dean says and drags Sam back down into another kiss.

+

"Hey, were you reading this?" Sam asks, picking up a leather bound book from the middle of the table in the library. He flicks it open, skimming the page and frowns. "I don't remember this book."

Dean looks at it, at the page with the handwriting that Sam has opened. "Never seen it, dude," he says.

"Weird," Sam mutters.

Dean shrugs. "There are a million books in here. It's not that weird, Sammy," he says. He shuffles through some of Sam's notes before putting the pages back on the table and sitting back in his chair.

"Yeah, but I have a system," Sam says. He points at a stack of books. "I still need to read those." He points at another at the far end of the table. "Those can be put away again." Then he points at the third stack, by far the biggest, "And those I've read but I need to fact check some stuff or look into things more."

"Well, one of us must have put it there seeing as we're the only two people living here," Dean says. "Place is warded as fuck, Sammy. And it's not like we're allowed to bring guests here—which is a real shame, by the way."

He waggles his eyebrows to tell Sam just what kind of guests he's talking about. Sam rolls his eyes.

"You ever think about anything but sex, dude?"

"There's nothing wrong with liking sex. I have a healthy appreciation for boobs, because unlike you I'm not a monk who never has sex, ever," Dean says. "But right now, I'm thinking about food, actually. And a cold beer."

"Shocking."

Dean grins and gets up. He kisses Sam, quick and soft, and then goes to throw together some food for them. He's in the mood for something spicy, he thinks, the kind of food that makes your tongue burn and your eyes water.

+

Dean is on his hands and knees, fingers fisted in the bedding, broken moans and gasps spilling from his mouth. Each thrust from Sam sparks pleasure inside of him, racing down his spine like molten hot lava.

Sam is big and thick inside of him, filling him to the point of almost too much and yet utterly perfect. Dean is gonna feel the stretch for days and goddamn it's worth it. Behind him, Sam is panting harshly, the mattress jostling with his movements, his fingers digging into Dean's hips.

"Fuck, Dean," he moans. "So good. So fucking _tight_. Feel so amazing."

Dean comes with a cry.

He collapses forward, but Sam's hands on his hips hold him up as he fucks into him. His thrusts get sloppier, harder, and Dean feels him so deep, feels pleasure and _too much_ and he never wants it to end. Then Sam comes with a shudder, body stilling, buried far inside Dean, with Dean's name on his lips.

He tips forward, weight pressing Dean down into the mattress, and nuzzles Dean's neck, smears kisses onto his skin. "Dean," he murmurs, pants. He shifts, pulls out, and Dean hisses.

He doesn't think he's ever been fucked so good. Sam is fucking incredible at this.

Sam.

_Sam._

Dean's eyes fly wide open and he scrambles out from under Sam, panic racing through his body, stomach clenching. Fear and confusion crash over him like a wave, the onslaught of feelings making his head spin and his stomach coil. Sam and he _fucked_ and what the hell happened? How did they get here?

"Dean, what--" Sam starts, but then he makes a choked off sound. Dean turns to look at him, finds Sam's eyes wide, his skin looking pale under the flush. He looks between them, their naked bodies, and gets even paler. "What the hell is going on?"

Dean topples off the mattress, his legs feeling like jello and his stomach twisting more and more, painfully. Sam calls out his name, but Dean ignores it as he flees the room. Since they were in his bedroom, he stumbles to the bathroom, slams the door shut behind him and locks it—and thank god they got a lock installed.

Panting and panicked, he stands there. His hands are trembling and for a moment, he thinks he's going to be sick. This wasn't supposed to happen. It's wrong and twisted and it was _never_ supposed to happen.

"Dean," Sam calls through the closed door and knocks. Soft at first, then harder.

Dean rubs at his eyes and then peers at himself in the mirror. He looks debauched. He looks well-fucked and he was. Sam fucked him. He sucked him off and gave him hand jobs and kissed him. For days. And they didn't know. Well, they knew, but they didn't _know_.

It's a curse. It must be.

"Dean, please open the door," Sam pleads. "We need to talk about this."

Dean doesn't know how, but there must have been something, _someone_ , who did this to them. Things were fine, normal. He wracks his brain, trying to come up with an explanation. When did things change? He remembers the first time they shared a bed, when they were on the hunt. But he kissed Sam before that, that morning when Sam told him about the case. And then he remembers the night before, Sam and him sitting in the library, Sam reading while Dean looked through a new stack of books Sam had put aside for himself. He remembers the book, the leather bound one that, just a few days ago neither of them could remember ever having seen before. But they did, that night, and they skimmed it then too; most of it was in English, but there'd been texts in another language too, some kind of hoodoo, Sam had assumed.

"Dean. Come on, please. _Please_ ," Sam calls, and Dean can hear the way his voice breaks, knows Sam well enough to know he's about to cry.

"Fuck," Dean whispers and clenches his hands into fists.

He turns away from his reflection and turns the shower on. Under the spray, he lets the hot water wash away the sweat and come and the traces of Sam. He can't wash away the finger shaped bruises forming on his hips though, nor the soreness he feels that comes from a good, hard fuck.

+

Sam is still waiting for him when Dean finally emerges from the bathroom. He's sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall opposite the bathroom, wearing a pair of sweatpants and no shirt. His eyes look red, but dry, his hair a mess like he's been running his hands through them a lot. He does that when he gets stressed or nervous.

Dean clutches the towel around his waist and looks away.

"So," Sam says, his voice cracking. "I think it was that book. It must have been cursed. We, uh, we should probably burn it."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. He would have expected Sam to want to try and find out what happened, what exactly the spell did to them, but he's happy not to. Isn't ready for what they might find out if they did. Burning it is fine by him, so then they can pretend this whole thing never happened. They can move on.

"I'll go get dressed," Dean mutters. Sam nods, but doesn't get up.

Dean takes his time. He refuses to look at his bed, to think about what he and Sam were doing on there less than thirty minutes ago. He pulls on clothes, eyes fixed on his hands only.

Sam is gone from the hallway by the time he's done. Dean finds him in the library. He's put the book in a big metal bowl they've used for spells a couple of times before and he's pouring some gasoline over it.

"You wanna?" he asks, and holds out a book of matches to Dean. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes, though.

"Yeah, sure," Dean says, his throat feeling too dry. He lights a match and tosses it onto the book. He watches the whole thing go up in flames, listens to the crackling and popping of the fire as it eats away the old leather and paper.

"I'll look into purification spells for us, just in case. But we're back to normal, so I guess it was just some sort of temporary hex," Sam says as the flames start to die down.

"Great," Dean says. "I think I'll actually head to bed now. It's late and stuff."

"Okay. Night," Sam murmurs, still staring at the burning book.

"Night," Dean echoes.

+

Dean sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms that night because he doesn't want to go back to his own, doesn't want to deal with the soiled sheets and the stench of sex. He tosses and turns for what feels like hours, waits with bated breath every time he thinks he hears a noise. For what, he isn't sure. For Sam to check on him, or barge in and demand to talk, or, maybe, to just crawl into bed with him.

+

The next morning, Dean cooks breakfast as he usually does. Sam isn't up yet, or maybe he's not leaving his room. Or maybe, another voice whispers in Dean's head, he's left.

Dean doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to check on Sam, doesn't want to disturb him. He drinks his coffee, waiting, and doesn't touch the bacon and eggs he made.

By the time Sam finally emerges, Dean is already starting to pull fixings for lunch out of the fridge, just to have something to do.

+

"I'm sorry," Sam says.

Dean stops and turns around to look at Sam. After having a cup of coffee, Sam went into the library and Dean continued making food. He'd brought Sam a plate with sandwiches and some fruit after a while, and planned on quietly retreating again. Sam's softly spoken apology stops him though.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats, sounding miserable. "For, you know. For what happened, what we did."

"Sam," Dean says. "That's not on you. It was the hex."

Sam laughs hollowly and the sounds breaks Dean's heart a little. Is this how it's going to be between them from now on? Tense and awkward, their relationship irrevocably changed by something they had no control over?

"I feel like it is," Sam admits. "I picked out the book."

"You couldn't have known. And I'm the one who picked it out of your stack of books that night, opened it first, too."

"Yeah, but..." Sam trails off, voice soft.

"But what?" Dean asks. "There are no buts, okay? Stop blaming yourself."

Sam shrugs, looking down at his hands. He looks like he has more to say, brow furrowed, so Dean waits. "Did I hurt you?" Sam finally asks in a voice that's not much louder than a whisper.

"What?"

"Last night. When we… you know." Sam makes a crude gesture with his hand. "I know prep is really important for… anal. I don't think I was exactly careful and I've never done that before, so… "

He trails off, looking away. Anywhere but at Dean. His lips are pursed a little, forehead wrinkled with small lines, like every muscle in his face is too tense. Like he's preparing himself for something bad, for Dean to lash out. For Dean to tell him he hurt him and is, somehow, to blame for all of this.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy," Dean says. Sam flinches and Dean instantly feels a flash of guilt. "You didn't do anything wrong. We were _both_ affected by the hex. And you didn't— _hurt_ me."

"I didn't?" Sam asks, looking so vulnerable and hopeful. Dean knows Sam, knows pretty much everything about him, sometimes feels like he knows Sam better than he knows himself, and he suddenly realizes Sam must have been beating himself up about this since last night. That he somehow built this up in his head to the point where he thinks he violated Dean. It's not the first time since last night Dean has felt sick, but it's definitely the worst one.

"Sammy, no," he says, voice firm. Sam's shoulders sag.

"You couldn't say no, though."

"Well, neither could you," Dean counters.

"Yeah, but I wasn't the one to, you know," Sam says.

"So what? That makes you more responsible than me? That makes me, what, a fucking victim and you the bad guy?" Dean asks, and he wants to punch something, slam his fist down on the table and make Sam listen. The only way to get through to Sam has been with words, though—and Dean has always been bad at that. He lets actions speak and Sam needs words and it's always been a bad combination.

Dean takes in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down a little. "It doesn't matter who did what, okay? We were both under the spell," he says, softer. "And I've done that before anyway, so it's fine. Not a big deal."

"You've done _that_?" Sam echoes. "Wait, you've been with guys?"

Dean shrugs. "What?" he asks. "It's not just college kids who experiment, you know?"

Sam looks skeptical, and okay, yeah, Dean isn't exactly the kind of guy who walks around waving a rainbow flag. Hell, he tends to snap at people who even insinuate he's anything but straight. But that's mostly because he hates the kind of assumptions people make, the way they'd see him. Truth is, Dean has been with his fair share of men. As much as he likes women, every once in a while he gets an itch for something different. He actually kinda assumed maybe Sam knew. It's hard to live in each other's pockets and not know these kind of things about each other.

"Since when?" Sam asks.

Dean huffs. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

"Yes," Sam says. "Dude, you can't just tell me you're… what, bisexual?"

Dean makes a face at that and Sam squints at him.

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Nothing. Whatever," Dean says. "Why the fuck do I have to put a label on it?"

"You don't," Sam reassures, giving Dean one of those looks. Those doe-eyed, soft looks that mean _I'm sorry_ and _I love you_ and _please don't be upset with me, Dean_. Dean fucking hates those looks.

He sighs and pulls one of the chairs out with his foot to sit down. "Okay. Fine. Ask your questions, I don't care."

Sam gives him a small smile. "How long?"

Dean shrugs. "Long time, really. First time I was eighteen, nineteen? I had a few drinks and I was looking for a hookup, but none of the girls there were really my type," he says with a shrug. "Some guy started talking to me. He was pretty hot and I thought why the hell not. So I let him blow me in the alley outside."

"Fuck," Sam says. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"And you've been with other guys since?"

Dean shrugs. "Yeah. Once in a while, when I feel like it."

"I had no idea," Sam says and huffs out a laugh. "Fuck, I never would have guessed. Did… anyone else know?"

"You mean dad?" Dean says and snorts. "Fuck no. I never told anyone. Don't see why it's anyone's business what I like to do and with whom."

Sam gives him a small, quirked grin. "Says the guy who brags about all of his one-night stands," he teases and then pauses. "Well, except those with guys, I suppose."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. So, question and answer session over?"

"I asked, like, two questions, Dean," Sam points out with an eye roll.

Usually, Dean would tell him that's about two too many and shut the conversation down. But it's better than the awkward, tense silence of the last few hours. Better than the worry they've fucked up their relationship beyond repair. Dean would rather sit here and have an awkward conversation about his sex life and the fact that, sometimes, he likes to take it up the butt than not talk at all.

"Fine. So, what else do you want to know?" he mocks. "The number of guys I've been with? What kinda guys I'm into? Want me to draw you a diagram?"

Sam gives him an exasperated look. "As if you could," he mutters then rolls his lower lip between his teeth. The white of his teeth, digging into the soft flesh, sets off the pink and Dean has to force himself to look away, to not think about where those lips have been lately, what they've done.

"Just spit it out," he says.

Sam looks unsure, years younger with strands of hair falling in his face. "What's it like?" he asks.

The question surprises Dean. He thought the last thing Sam would want, if he ever found out, was hearing details about Dean having sex. And it's not a good idea. It's fucking dangerous in fact, to talk about what it's like, because it makes Dean think about what he wants, who he wants. About the fact that for years now, Dean has had thoughts about Sam that aren't quite brotherly. It's not a crush, because Dean isn't a kid, but it's _something_. Maybe it's their lives, the fact that all they have is each other, that's fucking with his head. Dean doesn't know much about psychology, but he guesses that once you've crossed the line to where you're willing to sell your soul for someone, go to hell and get tortured for them, would burn down the whole world for them, then, well, a person might get a little confused. The lines between love and _in love_ can probably become blurry. Or cease to exist entirely.

"So?" Sam prompts.

Dean puts on his best, careless grin. He's perfected it over several decades. "Sammy, you've just had sex with a guy yourself," he says.

"Yeah, but not… " Sam trails off, his cheeks growing a little pink. "Forget it. You don't have to answer that; it's a stupid question anyway."

"Okay."

"Yeah. So," Sam starts and waves his hand at the plate. "Thanks for the food, Dean. And talking."

"No problem," Dean replies. He gets up, feeling awkward again all of a sudden. Sam gives him a small smile.

"We're good, right?" he asks. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, we're good, Sammy. You keep reading and I'll go clean up," he says.

+

Dean breathes a little easier after their conversation. The whole 'Sam and I were cursed and hooked up' thing is still too fresh for it not to be on his mind pretty much all the time, but he feels like they're going to be okay. It's not going to tear them apart the way he feared it would. Dean doubts he'll ever be able to forget it, he's never going to think about it and not feel his stomach clench, but he's going to learn to live with it. With Sam.

And that's all that matters.

So he keeps going about his day, and the bubble of panic that's been there since the night before is starting to disappear. His 'oh my god, we're never going to be able to fix this and Sam will leave' thoughts are being replaced by 'holy shit, we had sex. I had sex with Sam' thoughts. It's weird, but better. Manageable.

Dean spends some time in the shooting range, and then cleans their weapons for a couple of hours, making sure their guns are in pristine condition. His thoughts keep circling back to Sam's questions—he's a little surprised Sam didn't know Dean hooked up with guys sometimes, and he's not at all surprised Sam didn't care much. Sam is one of those people that is incredibly open-minded; you have to be a pretty horrible person for Sam to judge you.

It's Sam's last question that stumps Dean though. That spark of interest, of curiosity. Sam has never wanted to hear Dean talk about his sex life, has always tried his best to drown Dean out when he started bragging about it. Not even as a teenager has Sam ever asked him about sex.

Dean checks Sam's gun one last time, makes sure it's as clean as a gun can get, and then puts it back together with practiced ease. A glance at his watch tells him it's late afternoon already.

He puts everything away, returns each gun to the exact same place he got it from.

Sam is still in the library, hunched over a book, his forehead creased in concentration.

"Hey," Dean says and clears his throat. "I was gonna go get dinner started. Anything specific you're in the mood for?"

Sam looks up, expression smoothing out. "Uh, no. Whatever," he says. "You need help?"

Dean raises both eyebrows, lips quirking up in an amused smile. He doesn't have to say a word, knows Sam will get the meaning.

Sam huffs. "I can dice things and stuff. I'm not completely helpless in the kitchen."

"All right, hot stuff. Come and show me what you got," Dean teases and then feels his face heat up when he realizes what he said, what it sounded like. Sam just grins though and gets up. Sam has the ability to curl himself up in spaces that should be too small for someone his size, and yet it's never awkward. When Sam gets up, it's like watching an intricate construction gracefully unfolding. Or like a freaking centerfold, that you reveal slowly, piece by piece, except Sam is better than any centerfold. He's goddamn beautiful, tall and strong and alive, and Dean would rather look at him than posters of a thousand naked woman.

And it's so damn unfair that he's now intimately familiar with Sam's body in a way he's never been before, that he knows what Sam's naked body feels like pressed against his, knows the noises Sam makes when he touches him, knows where to seek out all the spots that get him going, knows what it's like to be tangled up in those long limbs and kiss that beautiful, soft mouth.

Dean breathes slowly, carefully, and gives Sam a bland smile. "Let's go make some food," he says, his voice sounding a little rough.

+

Sam keeps sneaking small glances at Dean while they cook, and Dean knows Sam doesn't think he's aware of it. He tries to act casual, oblivious, keeps sautéing the mushrooms Sam sliced and stirring the pasta in the pot while he tells Sam to get some spices.

But he's aware of Sam's eyes on him. Watching, assessing, questioning.

Dean pours some white wine over the mushroom, then some cream, and sets it down to a slow simmer.

"It's not that different," he says.

Sam, who has been dicing some fresh parsley, stops. "What?"

Dean sighs and looks at Sam quickly. "Sex with a guy. It's not that different," he clarifies. "It's what you've been thinking about, right? What you wanted to know."

Sam ducks his head, cheeks going a little pink, and fuck, why is he doing this to Dean?

"I guess," Sam says.

"It's not that different. At least not when you're the one, you know, on top," Dean says. "'s just sex. Hole's a hole, right?"

Sam snorts. "That's fucking crude. And it did feel different. To me," he says and gives a small cough. "Uh, tighter. You know."

Dean lets out a small laugh at that, shifts and tries not to think about how it felt, Sam inside of him, fucking him. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you try to put a baseball bat through the eye of a needle," he jokes, trying to keep things light.

Judging by the harsh breath Sam sucks in, he didn't to succeed. "You said I didn't hurt you," he says, all quietly.

"You didn't. Jesus, Sammy, I was making a joke," Dean says. "Look, it didn't hurt, but yeah, it can be a tight fit, so to speak. And I hadn't done it in a while and you're… you're kinda bigger than most guys I've been with."

"Oh," Sam says and Dean looks at him, sees the light flush on his cheeks and the barest hint of a smile. And that thing about knowing each of Sam's expressions? Yeah, Dean knows this one, too. Knows Sam is trying not to show it, but he's fucking pleased, the asshole. And that's… an interesting turn of events.

"Yeah, well, don't let it get to your head, okay? Maybe all the guys I've been with have just been exceptionally small," Dean says, going for teasing again. Testing the waters. Sam actually laughs.

"Sure," he says. "So, anyway… can't tell me _that_ doesn't feel different from sex with girls, though."

Dean stirs the sauce, testing to see if it's creamy enough yet. "No, uh, yeah. That's different," he agrees.

"And it feels good?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "What do you think, genius?"

"Okay," Sam says slowly. "When I… was that… good?"

"You asking me if you're good in bed, Sammy?"

The light flush on Sam's cheeks darkens, spreads. "No," he says, but it comes out too quickly. "It's just… you said I'm big, okay. And I'm not sure if that's a good thing when it comes to… anal sex."

"Christ, would you stop calling it anal sex? That sounds so… clinical," Dean gripes. "And yeah, it's a good thing. Big is good. At least I think it is—I guess it depends… Man, you're really absolutely clueless, huh?"

"Well, I told you I've never done it with a guy," Sam huffs. "It's just… hard to imagine, I guess. That it feels good."

"Well, it does. If the guy knows what he's doing and you're prepped and stuff, it can be fucking amazing."

"I didn't know what I was doing," Sam points out.

Dean gives the sauce a final stir and then turns the stove off. He gives Sam a look, holds his eyes for a few moments. "Well, could have fooled me."

Sam's eyes go a little wider, and there's that hint of a smile again, that damn pleased look. "Really?"

The whole situation is freaking bizarre. Dean has allowed himself to think about what it would be like to have sex with Sam before, sure, but it's still freaking weird that they actually did—curse or no curse—and that Sam is here, asking him about how it felt and if he was good and being freaking happy about the fact that he rocked Dean's world. And that must mean something, right? Dean always thought Sam would run for the hills if he ever found out that Dean thought about him like that, sometimes, and yet he's doing pretty much the opposite after they were hexed into fucking.

If there was such a thing as a sibling handbook, Dean is pretty sure they're going against every last rule in there, starting with sleeping together and ending with this. Dean—well, Dean is a lost cause as far as the rules for sibling relationships go anyway. But Sam's curiosity and smugness over being better than Dean's previous hookups surprises him, makes him wonder if maybe he's not the only one, if maybe Sam's as fucked up in the head as he is and would that really be that surprising after all, given that their entire lives have been fucked up?

"Yeah, really, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice is a little lower, a little more deliberate. He watches Sam carefully, sees the way Sam's smile gets just a little wider. "You wanna really know what it felt like? You want details?"

He holds his breath, waits.

Sam gives a small nod. "Yeah," he says, voice all soft. Dean's heart stutters in his chest, and there's heat pooling in his stomach, spreading out.

Dean licks his lips. "'s always a little weird at first. Not gonna lie, it hurts _a little_ , in the beginning, but it's not so bad. I kinda know what to expect and know to relax, so it's fine. It mostly just feels a little strange at first, real full, you know?" he says and his breath catches. Sam's does, too, though, so that's okay, and Dean doesn't stop, doesn't allow himself to think about what they're doing before he continues, "And that's kinda one of the best parts, too, at least for me. That feeling of having someone push into you, stretch you. I like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean says and nods. "Kinda makes you forget everything else, 'cause it's so intense. You know when you have sex and you're so in the moment and you stop thinking about anything else? It's like that, the whole time. 's all I can think about, the fact that there's a dick inside of me, filling me and stretching me."

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hisses, but there's no heat, no anger in the words. Instead it comes out all breathless, like someone punched Sam in the gut, and his eyes are fixed on Dean's face.

Dean holds his gaze and he continues, "You kinda adjust to it after a few moments, though, and if the guy is good, that's when it gets even better. You really feel it, you know? Having the guy move, slide in and out. It's fucking insane, Sammy. It's so damn good. I know not all guys feel that way, but I could get off on just that. And then when the guy finds your prostate? Fucking hell, Sammy, that's the most intense pleasure I've ever felt in my life. Makes you see stars, I swear."

"Did I… did I, you know?" Sam asks, and fuck, he sounds wrecked. Dean grips the counter, curls his fingers around the cool metal.

"Fuck yeah, Sammy. You did. Fucking nailed it," he says.

Sam bites down on his bottom lip, white teeth digging into the soft, pink flesh, and he makes a small noise in the back of throat, a small whimper that goes straight to Dean's cock. Sam's chest is heaving, and he's beautifully flushed and Dean lets his gaze drop lower, just for a moment, let's himself look at the outline of Sam's hard dick in his jeans.

"Sam," he says, and fuck if his voice doesn't break. Dean's lost all pretense of cool minutes ago.

And then Sam is on him—three big steps and he's crossed the distance between them, crowds up against Dean. He cups Dean's face in his hands, big and warm and a little damp, and tugs Dean in as he lowers his head, brings their mouth together in a desperate kiss.

Dean returns the kiss, doesn't hold back as he parts his lips under Sam's and lets him take whatever he wants. He wraps his arms around Sam, presses up against him so he can feel Sam's erection, so Sam can feel his, too. He doesn't think he's ever felt this turned on, this dizzy with need and arousal.

Sam kisses him like his life depends on it, slides his tongue against Dean's and moans into his mouth. It's beautiful, amazing, and Dean never wants to stop. If he never moves again, never gets to breathe again with Sam's mouth pressing down on his, he'd be fine with it. He curls his fingers into Sam's hair, the other hand clutching the back of Sam's shirt, right under the collar.

Dean doesn't think he's ever been kissed like this. Deep and hungry and all-consuming. Years of his pent up desire, the tension of the last couple of days, are being poured into the kiss, draining him and leaving his head spinning.

Behind them something boils over, sizzles, and it breaks the spell. Sam sighs, playfully tugs at Dean's lower lip with his teeth before breaking the kiss, but he doesn't step back.

"Fuck, Dean," he murmurs, his breath coming out short, and he's smiling, looking happy and flushed. Dean turns his head, nuzzles Sam's jaw and places soft, small kisses there, his heart beating so fast in his chest he thinks it might give out any moment.

"Sam, are you sure the hex is broken?" he asks and it hurts to say it, to even think it.

Sam sighs, not unhappily, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure," he says. "So… "

"So… " Dean echoes and laughs a little. "Pasta's definitely overcooked now."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, afraid so," he agrees. "Guess we could make some new pasta. Or we could… you know."

"We could what?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

"We could do something about that," Sam says and gestures at their lower bodies. They're not pressed together the way they were before, but they're still standing close enough that Dean can feel Sam's hard-on and he presses forward, teasing.

"Yeah, let's do that," he decides.

+

Dean's never been particularly fussy about where he has sex—the back of a car, dirty bathroom stalls in a bar, an alley, a crappy motel. He's learned not to be picky. But Sam is different, Sam deserves better. And as much as Dean loves their kitchen, it's stark and impersonal and nothing but clean, cold surfaces.

Sam is the kind of guy you should take out to dinner first, shower with compliments and affection and take things slow with. The kind of guy you treat right, because he's the best kind of person on this damn planet.

Sam, it turns out, also totally doesn't agree with that at all—apparently slow isn't really his style. Dean just barely manages to talk him into taking things into the bedroom at least.

Once there, Sam backs Dean up against the bed frame without breaking their kiss and then pulls back abruptly. "Naked. Bed. Now," he demands, words breathless and choppy.

Dean wouldn't mind taking it slow. Wouldn't mind making out languidly while they undress each other. But he's also really fucking horny and he's been dreaming about this for years, so he figures they can do slow another time. He hurriedly takes all his clothes off, and Sam does the same, hot gaze fixed on Dean.

Dean gets on the bed, barely has time to lie down on his back before Sam is nudging his legs apart as he crawls between them, kisses Dean as he grinds his hard cock against Dean's once, twice.

It feels completely different than before. Everything they did together when they were under the spell is kind of hazy—Dean remembers, but the memories aren't as clear as others. Like those things you do automatically and then when you try to think about them, the details are foggy. He can remember the things they did, but he can't remember consciously thinking about any of them, can't remember choosing to do any of the stuff. It just _happened_ , without there ever having been a real awareness.

Now, Dean is very much aware of what they're doing. Sam's kisses are hot—open-mouthed, teeth nibbling and grazing deliberately over flesh, tongue exploring, tasting. Sam kisses with intent, kisses to draw out small whimpers of pleasure and swallow them right up, kisses like it's the most important and best thing to do in the world. Dean lets himself get lost in it, lets Sam take charge and just _basks_ in it. Sam's body on top of his is heavy and warm, covering him and pressing him down, and it's all smooth, hot skin and hard muscles. They move together, grinding and rocking as they kiss, Dean's hips twitching up relentlessly, seeking friction and warmth and Sammy.

Sam nips at Dean's jaw, a quick pain that he soothes with kisses before trailing his mouth up to Dean's ear. "Tell me what to do," he murmurs, while running big, strong hands down Dean's sides, moves his hips against Dean's so their cocks slide together, slick with precome.

Dean makes a choked off sound, buries one hand in Sam's hair and palms Sam's ass with the other, guides him against him as he turns his head, seeks more kisses. Sam laughs softly, breath fanning over Dean's cheek.

"Dean. Focus."

"Huh?"

"What do I need to do?" Sam asks again. "Prep, right? Tell me."

Right. Dean breathes in, tries to calm down a little. "Lube," he says and fumbles to pull open the drawer of his bedside table. Sam lifts up a little, takes over and grins triumphantly when he pulls out a bottle of lube and holds it up. Dean nods.

"Okay," Sam says and sits back on his haunches as he flips the cap open. Dean pulls his legs up, placing his feet on the mattress, thighs splayed open around Sam's knees. With other guys, when Dean bottomed, he always preferred to be on his hands and knees. Despite the fact that the rule to never turn his back on anyone had been ingrained in him, lying on his back, sprawled out, always made him feel too vulnerable—it was too personal. With Sam it's thrilling, knowing he's laid out for him, that Sam can see everything, see all of him. It's exhilarating that he will be able to see Dean's face when they fuck, and that Dean won't be able to keep the walls up, that he'll let Sam see everything.

"How much do I need?" Sam asks.

Dean bites down on his lower lip. "This is the good stuff, so you don't need gallons. But lube's kinda key for sex between guys," he says. "Make sure your fingers are all slicked up. I'll let you know if you need to use more."

Sam nods and pours some of the lube onto his fingers. Dean watches him rub his fingers together, test out the texture even though he doubts it's the first time Sam has encountered lube. Dean has used it with plenty of girls, too.

Then Sam gives him a small grin. "Ready?" he asks and brings his hand down between Dean's legs. Dean feels cool, wet fingers slide behind his balls, rub over his taint before sliding further down. He can't help the soft moan that escapes, and Sam grins wider, the tip of one finger adding pressure against his hole before it slides in.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam murmurs, nudging his finger deeper inside. His eyes are on Dean's face, and Dean knows Sam is going to find nothing but bliss there. Sam pulls in and out a few times, movement a little hesitant, experimenting.

"Two's fine," Dean pants, splaying his legs a little wider.

Sam nods and pulls out almost all the way, only to press back in with two, burying them all the way in. Dean tosses his head back with a moan.

"Yeah, Sammy," he encourages, swiveling his hips a little. Sam's fingers are long, not thick enough to be what Dean craves, but they feel nice. Sam starts fucking him with them, twisting them inside of him rubbing against Dean like he's trying to get a feel for him. A few times, he brushes against Dean's prostate, making Dean cry out softly, pleasure shooting through him.

"Christ, I wish you could see yourself," Sam mutters and when Dean peers up at him, he finds Sam is watching his fingers. He can imagine what it looks like, the way his hole stretches around them, pink and stretched, slick with lube.

"Give me one more," Dean pants. "Come on."

Sam complies. Three fingers burn a little, makes Dean feel the stretch. And yet it's not enough.

Sam leans over him then, big warm body covering Dean's, and kisses him. The new position makes the angle a little awkward, but he keeps working his fingers, opening Dean up. "Gotta tell me when you're ready. Or if I do something wrong," Sam says against the corner of his mouth, between small, sweet kisses.

"Oh fuck it. I'm ready," Dean groans and tilts his head to catch Sam's mouth in a hard kiss, cupping his face with his hands. Sam laughs into his mouth and pulls his fingers out before lifting up a little.

"Okay," he says. "Like this? Tell me what a good position is."

"This is fine," Dean says and Sam gives him a soft grin.

"Good. I like seeing you," he admits and kisses Dean once more, quick and gentle. "Do we need a condom?"

Dean rolls his lower lip between his teeth and shrugs. "Didn't use one the first time either."

What he means is that he trusts Sam, that Sam can trust him, too. Hell, he's the one who taught Sam to never have unprotected sex and get tested regularly, and he knows Sam has always followed the rule to a T. Hell, the past few years they've gone and gotten tested together more often than not. But this is different, this is them and they're both clean and Dean wants to feel Sam inside of him without anything between them, wants to feel him come and feel marked.

Sam smiles and nods, doesn't question it. Instead he sits back a little and picks up the lube again. "More of this, right?" he asks, his voice more teasing than genuinely clueless.

Dean shifts a little, scoots down a little lower and lays his legs around Sam's thighs. "Hell yeah, you're not getting that monster in me without more lube."

Sam grins and pours lube into his hand. "You love it," he says, smugly. Dean doesn't argue with that. He watches Sam slicking himself up, jerking his hand up and down a few times and spreading the lube around deliberately. Sam's cock _is_ huge, and Dean loves watching it slide through his hand, glistening with lube. He makes a mental note to make Sam jerk off for him one day, so he can just sit back and watch him do this.

Sam licks his lips. "Okay," he murmurs, more to himself than to Dean, and then positions himself. Dean hooks his legs around him, heels digging into Sam's ass, and his stomach tightens as he feels the head of Sam's cock nudge against his hole. He breathes out just as Sam presses in, the tip of his dick breaching him. It hurts and it's amazing, the sensation setting Dean's whole body on fire, the knowledge of how good it will feel making it even better.

"Sammy," Dean moans. Sam curls one hand around Dean's thigh while he props himself up over Dean with the other, and then continues to push in steadily, until he's all the way in. He feels even bigger than he looks, stretching Dean wide on his cock.

Dean's never felt this full and he wishes he could remember their first time together better. He doesn't ever want to do this and not store away every little detail of it in his mind; he wants to remember everything. He curls his fingers into the sheets on the mattress, his body strung tight with pleasure and want, thrumming with it.

"Oh god," he groans. Sam's fingers dig into his thigh a little harder and he starts moving again then. He goes slow at first, like he's experimenting with what he's doing, the drag of his cock making Dean see stars, noises falling from his mouth. Each thrust seems to encourage Sam, making him pick up a little speed, until he's fucking Dean hard and fast, both of them panting, bodies moving together.

The bed is creaking a little with their movement, headboard thumping into the wall, and Dean can't stop moaning Sam's name, asking him for more and arching up into him.

"So good. Fuck, Sammy, you feel so good," he groans and one of his hands is grappling at Sam now, clutching, needing more contact. Sam is so deep inside him, Dean swears he feels him everywhere, in every cell of his body. He's dripping with sweat, writhing and gasping, and he feels wanton and dirty and perfect.

Sam is flushed, tan skin looking rosy, hair damp with sweat and panting as he fucks into Dean relentlessly. Dean can't take his eyes off him, loves seeing Sam's muscles move and flex as he thrusts in and out, filling Dean so completely.

"Dean," Sam grunts. "Fuck, Dean."

Dean feels himself clench around Sam, balls tightening, and he comes with a cry. Sudden and untouched. The orgasm washes over him in waves, his body shuddering under Sam. Sam kisses him then, deep and needy, and Dean's lungs are burning, heart hammering in his chest, but he kisses Sam back. Sam's movements slow down, until he's grinding into Dean, as if he's trying to get in deeper, his body on top of Dean's, pressing him down into the mattress and soothing the trembles of his aftershocks.

He moans, the sound muffled against Dean's lips, hand tightening around his thigh, and Dean feels him come. Feels the hot, sticky wetness inside of him, as Sam sloppily ruts into him, rides out his orgasm.

Later, they lie curled up together on top of the covers, sweat cooling on their skin, limbs tangled. Sam's face is buried in the crook of Dean's neck, his breath even, and Dean lazily cards his fingers through the sweaty tangles of Sam's hair.

He hears Sam snort softly, feels the exhale of breath against his skin.

"Wha'?" he mumbles.

Sam tips his head back a little, bites at Dean's jaw playfully. "Was just thinking how many rooms there are in the bunker," he says and runs his hand up Dean's side, over his ribs. "We're going to have to christen every single one of them."

"Yeah?"

"Hmm, yeah. All the cars in the garage, too, I'm thinking."

"What about the motorcycles?" Dean asks and Sam groans, all soft and turned on, making Dean grin.

"What about when we're done with all of that?" he prods.

Sam shifts, props himself up on one elbow. "I'm thinking, every motel in the country since we spent most of our lives living in them."

"That's a tall order, Sammy," Dean teases. 

Sam brings his hand up, drags his thumb over Dean's lower lip and then kisses him.

"I have faith in us," he says and grins.


End file.
